


How To Tie A Knot

by pearl_o



Series: Nuptials [1]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Future Fic, Gay Mutant Road Trip, M/M, Marriage, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A honeymoon, a marriage, a wedding. They've reached the <i>better</i> side of <i>for better and for worse</i>, at last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Tie A Knot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourgirlfriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourgirlfriday/gifts).



**I. something old  
**   
_1962_  
  
They had stopped for the night -- a little earlier, perhaps, than was strictly necessary, but Charles had declared himself famished and even Erik could admit to being rather peckish. Even beyond that it seemed wrong, somehow, to spend even a few more hours in the car, stuck on the highway when the summer evening beckoned so golden and idyllic. The kind of evening that one always felt a summer _should_ be made up of, and yet always seemed surprisingly rare.

So: an early night, then, with Charles's lazy promise of an early start in the morning. They were in one of those states in the middle of the country that Erik never could keep track of (not then, and certainly not in his memory in the years to follow) and there was at least another day's drive ahead of them before they were set to reach the next promising set of coordinates on Cerebro's list. As many times as they had struck out, they had found two mutants to join them already, the last less than a week before, and that small sense of victory still hung over them both.

They were dining in the hotel's restaurant, a rather nicer place than most of the diners and shacks they lunched at on the road. Erik had excused himself to the toilet after they ordered, and when he returned to the table, Charles's attention was clearly fixed in the far corner of the room.

Erik followed the line of his gaze, but there was nothing more interesting there than a nondescript young couple.

"Newlyweds," Charles murmured. He let his gaze turn back to Erik, a faint smile still playing at his lips. "This is their honeymoon. They've been saving up for ages and now it's finally here, and they're so excited about it, so wrapped up in each other. I wish you could feel it, Erik, their happiness. It lights up the room."

A dozen caustic or acerbic remarks rose to Erik's lips, all at once, but he found he had no desire to say any of them aloud.

Instead, he sipped at the wine Charles had selected for them, and after a moment, he said, "What about you, Charles? Are you happy?"

Charles had let his smile widen, then, a glorious thing overtaking his face, crinkling the skin around his eyes, and there was still enough light in the summer sky that the sun shone through the windows and highlighted golden strands in his dark hair. "Exceedingly, my friend," Charles replied, in a low voice, private and for no one else but Erik ever to hear.

Erik felt vaguely that he, too, had never been happier than now, than these past weeks in Charles's company, and the idea was terrifying enough to put him off his dinner, as delicious as his steak and fried potatoes were.

Still, he continued to think about it later, lying awake in the bed of Charles's room long after Charles had drifted off, sated and post-coital and smug, somehow, even in his sleep.

 _Honeymoon_ , Erik thought. His hand was still in Charles's uncanny tangle of hair, wrapping and unwrapping a single messy tendril around his finger.

He hadn't expected this. The staccato beat of _Schmidt Schmidt Schmidt_ still ran through his veins every moment, every day. Erik's every moment was defined by that background of rage. He couldn't begin to imagine defining himself without it. He simply wasn't _designed_ that way. All of those possibilities of gentleness had been bred out of him long before he and Charles had ever met, and Erik couldn't fool himself about that. Charles might speak of the future, but Erik had no illusions that anything might follow his finally confronting Shaw.

No. Erik knew himself too well to think he could ever make an adequate mate. He couldn't give Charles anything, couldn't promise him a single thing.

And yet... he wanted to. That frightening feeling in the middle of his chest, painful and perfect, wanted to reach out to Charles and have him for his own, forever, for whatever forever might mean.

It was a selfish thought, and though it stayed in his mind quite a bit in the weeks to come (it was amazing, really, the number of metal objects one could imagine transforming into rings), he never shared it with Charles purposefully. If Charles noticed it anyway, he never mentioned it.

Just as well, as things turned out.

 

 

 **II. something new  
**   
_2014_  
  
Erik is still working on preparing lunch when Charles wheels into the kitchen, fresh from his trip up the lane that leads to their mailbox.

"Five more minutes," Erik says, "but you can start setting the table, if you like."

Charles takes a moment to move the pile of catalogs and newsletters from his lap to the counter nearest the fridge. Erik doesn't understand how they manage to accumulate the junk in such fierce quantities; for every mailing list he seeks out to unsubscribe, more mail seems to appear. They must breed in the night. That, or Charles is giving their address out on the internet.

"Something interesting came today," Charles says, crossing behind Erik to get the pale blue china out of the low cabinet by the door. His voice is suspiciously casual, and Erik frowns down at the stove.

"I don't understand what you find so fascinating about those monthly clubs," Erik grumbles. "I've told you, I don't trust any supplies we don't get to choose for ourselves."

"Not a catalog, you ass," Charles says peacefully, as he places two plates on their small table. "A wedding invitation."

"A _wedding_? Whose?"

"Jean and Scott. Isn't that lovely?"

Erik merely snorts.

They're both silent for a few minutes, as Charles continues to ready the table: a pitcher of ice water, some glass tumblers, silverware and linen napkins. The house is very small, barely a cottage, and neither of them brought very many possessions with them when they came to it, but one consequence of that is the things they do have are very fine, and rather loved. Food tastes better, Erik is sure, eaten like this, at a thoughtfully laid table -- with a few flowers as a centerpiece, perhaps, and a view of one's own garden through the window.

Erik, for his part, turns his attention fully to finishing the meal. The English muffins are toasted; the hollandaise is fine resting in the double boiler; the smoked salmon was freshly bought this morning from the deli in town, when Erik had driven out there to do his weekly errands. Perfectly poaching an egg, however, though not precisely difficult, does have a few tricky moments requiring a bit of concentration. Still, it all comes out very nicely, if Erik does say so himself, and Charles eyes the food appreciatively as Erik carries the tray over to serve them.

"Hollandaise sauce," Charles says happily, after his first bite. "I believe I would eat a old shoe if you slathered it with enough hollandaise. Although it's not exactly on the doctor's approved food list."

Erik makes a dismissive noise. "The doctor's list is nonsense. You're going to live past a hundred, and I refuse to spend all that time eating bird food."

This is a statement Charles has heard from him a thousand times before, so Erik isn't particularly surprised Charles chooses to ignore it and jump instead back to their previous topic of conversation. Between bites of food, Charles says, "They've set a date for mid-June, so just after students should be gone for the summer. I wonder where on the grounds they'll have the ceremony? Out by the rosebushes, perhaps. They should be blooming then."

"I thought they were already married," Erik says.

Charles shakes his head. "Merely living in sin all these years."

"What on earth was Summers waiting for all that time?" Erik raises his eyebrow. The boy (no, man now, Erik corrects himself, _all_ of the children are adults now and have been for years ) must surely be aware Jean Grey is out of his league. One would have thought he would have made plans to tie her to him as quickly as possible.

 _You're certainly one to talk_ , Charles says, a quiet mental dig, both affectionate and amused at Erik's expense. _Fifty years!_

"Two weeks," Erik counters aloud. "Two weeks after it was legal here."

He's finished his own meal by then, though Charles is still working on his. Erik has the bad habit of eating more quickly than anyone around him, for reasons Charles finds obvious and Erik prefers not to acknowledge.

Erik stands up from the table and takes his plate to the sink, where he rinses it off briefly before leaving it. Erik cooks, and Charles washes up; it's one of the many rules they've devised over the last not-quite-two years, to enable themselves to coexist in this same small space. The second bedroom is a shared office, but Charles uses it in the morning while Erik writes every afternoon. No television whatsoever, and two separate copies of the newspaper.

"I'm shocked they thought to invite me," Erik says lightly, drying his hands off on a dish towel. There are lopsided ducks hand-embroidered along the edges. Erik can't remember whether it was a gift from one of Charles's former students or one of Erik's grandchildren, but it gets a place of honor in the kitchen either way.

"Technically, they invited me and a guest," Charles admits as he wipes delicately at his lips with his napkin.

"Charles Xavier's plus one! Is that all I am these days?" Erik shakes his head. "How the mighty have fallen."

Charles's smile is as wide and sweet as it ever was, knowing and fond. How many years did Erik go without seeing it? Too many. (Though he still can't think of a single thing he could have done differently -- but that's another thought he mostly chooses not to share, these days.)

"Some," Charles says, "would consider it to be making their way up in the world."

 

 

 **III. something borrowed  
**   
_2014_  
  
Erik was all for getting a hotel room in town, but Charles had been adamant on taking the children's offer to stay in his old living quarters for the night following the ceremony. It was only polite, Charles said; it was much more comfortable than a hotel room could ever be; the familiarity meant there was no need to worry about accessibility, unlike staying somewhere new; and it was so convenient, too.

Erik had argued, of course, even though he knew from the start he had no chance at winning. But eventually he had acquiesced to Charles's wishes with what he considered to be only a small amount of ill grace.

It's dark already when he manages to pull Charles away from the reception, which is still going strong, all cheerful loudness. Charles is slightly tipsy, and Erik imagines he wouldn't mind staying with the party until it finally winds down in the early hours of the morn. But Erik is an old man, and he's tired, and he is going to make sure they stick to their schedule in the morning and leave on time to return to their own house, dammit -- and so to bed they go.

Through the labyrinthine halls, up the hidden elevator with its passcode unchanged for decades upon decades (not particularly good security habits, by any means, but what are the chances an intruder would know the day and month Charles first found Mystique in his kitchen, all those years ago?), and finally into Charles's former rooms, where they begin their preparations for sleep.

Erik is brushing his teeth in the en-suite, door open, when Charles calls, "It was a lovely wedding, though, wasn't it?"

Erik spits foam into the sink and says, "Very pretty."

It had been pretty. Erik did have to give them that. Less torturous than he had been expecting, too; someone involved in planning had a sense of pace, and kept things moving at a reasonable progress, though it was still long enough that Erik's hip had begun to register its disapproval of the hard chairs. The reception was better, because then Erik had been able to entertain himself with a few private games, such as deciding which of the other guests might recognize him as Magneto, which of them only seemed to see an old man who proved the Professor had a romantic life, and which of those two groups were more disconcerted by him. He had a private wager with himself, too, about what the state of Charles's head was going to be tomorrow with regards to sunburn -- Charles would receive no sympathy about it from him, not after accusing Erik of nagging each time he suggested a hat.

Charles has already moved himself into the bed when Erik leaves the bathroom. Erik's carrying a glass of water, which he transfers to Charles's waiting hand, and Charles swallows it down quickly with his nightly pills. He sets the glass down on the nightstand after, and Erik turns away to change out of his suit and into a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants from their suitcase.

Erik can feel Charles's eyes on him as he changes. It still affects him, after all this time, the knowledge of Charles's warm appreciation for his body, Charles's insistence on aesthetics and sensuality rather than Erik's own practicality and mechanical nature.

"It was good seeing you dance with the bride," Charles says. There's just a trace of wistfulness that Erik can hear -- because they're at the school now, and so Charles is the Professor, and the Professor never complains or shows weakness or does anything interesting, as far as Erik can tell. It's as close as Charles is likely to come to saying he wishes _he_ could have danced with his favorite student at her wedding.

They'll be home again tomorrow, Erik reminds himself. Their house, instead of the school; their bed, and not Charles's; his husband, rather than the headmaster.

Erik folds his discarded clothes and places them in the inside pocket of the suitcase. "I preferred dancing with the maid of honor," he tells Charles as he crosses the room and climbs into bed. "I didn't think we were currently on speaking terms." A pleasant surprise, to say the least. Wanda had looked stunning, the prettiest girl in the room by far, even if the color of the gown was unfortunate for her complexion and Erik could see exhaustion around her eyes. He'd been good, though: polite. Not presuming or pushing. Old dogs can learn new tricks on occasion, perhaps. It's simply that the learning process is interminably slow, and rarely worth it.

Charles picks up Erik's hand from where it lies on the comforter between them and presses a dry kiss to the skin. Erik twists in his grip until they're clasped together, palm to palm.

"Your speech was good, too," Erik says. Charles had worried about it, more nervous about it than Erik's ever seen him get for any of the important lectures he's given over the years. He'd still been looking over his notes in the van on the way down.

Charles grins at him. "That was transparent, but still appreciated," he says. "You don't think I went over the line a little into pompous old windbag?"

"A little, maybe. But that's what they wanted from you. They would have been disappointed otherwise."

He earns a chuckle from Charles. "Well, it doesn't matter. Nobody listens to advice about marriage, anyway. Which is just as well, since it's all more or less rubbish."

"'Never go to bed angry,'" Erik quotes thoughtfully. "I don't think I slept for the first six weeks we were married."

"Mmm," Charles says, in what Erik takes to be agreement. He must have gotten Charles away from the party just in time, because the tiredness seems to be kicking in suddenly; he can hear the sleep in Charles's voice. "And really it's just a matter of... compromise, I suppose. Compromise and--" He yawns. "--Respect."

"And love, surely," Erik says, watching Charles's eyes flutter shut. The veins of his eyelids are very blue against the delicate skin.

"Well, love," Charles says, acknowledging and dismissing all at once. "That's the easy part, isn't it? If it was just a matter of love, there would be no question at all."

Charles's eyes are still shut, and Erik takes a moment to reach out with his powers, shutting the lights off all around them.

"I'm not sure any of it is the easy part," he says into the dark, and Charles makes a soft, sweet noise and squeezes his hand again.

 

 

 **IV. something blue  
**   
_2012_  
  
Charles was still getting ready when the knock on the door came. As far as Erik knew, there were perhaps a half-dozen people who had his and Charles's location at the moment. Of that small group, there was only one whom Erik would possibly allow to intrude without a great fight; definitely only one he would actively welcome.

"Calm yourself," Charles said, his attention still mostly fixed on the accessories laid out on the bed in front of him. "It's her. Go answer the door, and I'll join you both in a moment."

Erik left him to his deliberations and made his way out of the bedroom and through the living room. He opened the front door onto the quiet, luxurious hallway, and a blonde girl who appeared almost painfully young to his eyes. He only saw her for a single moment, though, for then she was transforming once more into Mystique's familiar blue form.

"Erik," Mystique murmured, and he leaned forward to allow them exchange kisses on cheeks before ushering her inside.

"I like the dress," Erik said. The white set off the vivid hue of her skin rather beautifully. The detailing on the belt was a bit abstract, but resembled skulls as much as anything else Erik could identify, which pleased him. Elegant, but with a sting.

"Thanks," Mystique said. "I've been saving it for a special occasion." She smiled at him. "I assume Charles is changing his outfit for, what, the tenth time?"

"He'll be out in a moment."

"He would always get extra fussy about his appearance when he was nervous," Mystique said. She shot Erik a thoughtful look. "And you? How are you doing with the nerves? Any cold feet?"

"None at all," Erik lied, flashing her his teeth. He hadn't smoked since the 90's, but he thought he would kill for a cigarette right now. Although of course he would never give into the weakness of his body's demands so easily. Not to mention how much it would irritate Charles, something that this day of all days Erik would rather avoid.

"Mm-hmm," Mystique said, not bothering to hide her disbelief. "You realize your tie is crooked, don't you? Were your hands shaking when you did it? Come over here and I'll fix it."

She held out her arms, and he obeyed, walking to her and holding himself still under her inspection as she fussed.

The problem, of course, with knowing someone so long was that they knew all your tells. That blonde girl might look impossibly young in contrast to the old man Erik saw in the mirror as he shaved, but she had felt every one of those long years, just as he and Charles had.

"There's nothing to be nervous about, you realize," Erik informed her, eyes fixed on the wall over her shoulder.

"I know."

"Really, we're only doing it for the tax benefits."

Mystique laughed, just as he intended for her to do. "Of course you are. Tell me, Erik, have you ever paid taxes?"

He would shrug, if she weren't holding him still. "I suppose I must have at some point." It's not as though he ever really had a settled country since he was a small child. Giving money to the government had never been high on his list of priorities, even the ones that weren't actively trying to kill or imprison him or his people. Erik never met a single government he had a good word to say about, in fact -- although he was feeling a bit fonder of the U.S. on this particular day. They did get some goodwill, just for that astonishing fact that they were willing to give him a piece of paper that declared, officially and legally and unmistakably, that Charles belonged to him and no one else.

"That's how they got Al Capone, you know," Mystique was saying, when Charles finally rolled out of the bedroom.

"Raven, darling," he said, "you made it."

Mystique released Erik's tie, and he stepped back, out of the way while she went to Charles, bending down so they could embrace.

"I wouldn't have missed it," Mystique said quietly into Charles's shoulder. "I made you a promise, remember? Years ago, when we were young and dinosaurs walked the earth."

"I'm glad you're here with us," Charles replied. His face was glowing and Erik thought there were tears in his eyes; Erik had to look away quickly, blinking up determinedly at the light fixture over the couch, for fear he would tear up as well. Erik was more or less resigned to the fact that would be crying today, but not before they'd even left this apartment.

Erik cleared his throat. "Shall we go and get it over with?" he suggested.

"Ah, romance," Mystique said dryly, but Charles laughed.

"Let's go, then," Charles said. "I think we're finally ready, after all."


End file.
